


Of Nowhere

by JustJym



Series: The White Werewolf [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Fingering, Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Leshens (The Witcher), Lots of kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rape Recovery, Scars, Werewolf!Geralt, handjobs, jaskier is a hairy boy and he is beautiful and no one will tell me otherwise, mildly slow burn, references to book characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22225243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJym/pseuds/JustJym
Summary: After the attack of the werewolf, Jaskier wakes to find himself in the home of someone he doesn't know...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The White Werewolf [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594000
Comments: 48
Kudos: 556





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to Wolf Bait, which I don't think you'll have to read before this one, everything in this story is implied and recaps major points in the previous story. I've put this in the third games universe. I tried to approach this subject as respectfully as possible, so please don't hate me too much for getting something incorrect or is approached insensitively.

Jaskier groaned as the grogginess of sleep began wearing off, his mind coming back to reality, but his eyes refused to open. Maybe it was the sun rays flooding his face, or maybe it was the searing pain that throbbed throughout his body. He slowly began twitching his fingers, as if he'd been frozen for days, trying to grasp at where he was. He was warm, a soft fur blanket over his body, and the place he lay was unusually plush. As he tried to pry his eyes open, the slightest bit of light caused his head to pound, resulting in a moan of discomfort.

Footsteps to his left, heavy boots across a wooden floor, came quick but even to his side, a blurry figure in his vision hovering over his head. He tried to turn to get a better look at the 'thing' gazing down at him, a milky vision of swirled and muddy colors, then yawped when his neck screamed at him to not move. He went to lift a hand to his sore, but found that he couldn't, the pain only increasing with his stiffness.

A cool palm pressed to his forehead, a deep grumble from above said, “Hmm. Fever's broke.”

He couldn't make out the figure, nor did he recognize the voice or the unfamiliar scent of leather, cedar, and a hint of wet dog. He knew he wasn't home, but his mind was too jumbled to attempt putting pieces together. As feeling came back to him, his joints panged from disuse and his skin burned as the furs were lifted from his chest. Chilled fingers slide over his chest, pulling at the skin of his collar bone, as if examining him. “Could get infected again,” the rumbling baritone spoke again, the boots clunking the floor again, and growing quiet.

Jaskier raised a hand, ignoring the pain, and pressed it to his injury. He felt around numbly, shaking fingers brushing against something foreign on his skin. His flesh was raised, several mounds around his collarbone and neck. Each mound was tender, all sealed with a thin thread, and slick.

Breathing became difficult as memories of 'that night' came flooding back to him. He tried to sit up, but his spine refused to cooperate, switching to using his arms. He struggled to lift himself, wincing in discomfort, feeling the desperate urge to get up and run. His breathing turned quick and short, his head growing dizzy. He opened his mouth, like he would scream or cry for help, but nothing every came out. He needed to get away from here. Get away from the monster.

Away from the wolf.

"Woah," the voice in the room called, rushing back to his side. Hands were on his shoulders, trying to push him down.

Jaskier's eyes were tearful and frantic, darting around as he tossed the blanket aside, half screaming at the sight of his nakedness. The hands on his shoulders insisting he submit, the voice a growl in his ears. The reminder of claws digging into his flesh and the smell of rancid breath set his heart soaring. He fought the hands, smacking at them and crying his pleas. "Don't touch me! G-get away!”

"Calm down!" the foreign voice barked, unable to regain control of the situation. A hand left his body, followed but the sound of tumbling bottles and a curse of pox. Glass shattered on the floor, another foul word and the fumbling of something metallic that whined.

Something pressed to his face uncomfortably. It was soft and smelled of lavender and chamomile and something sharp and bitter. He shook his face away, kicking his legs and pushing himself back until he met a wall, trying to slip inside it to get away. The cloth was still pressed firmly against his nose, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't get away. Tears flooded his eyes as his hands clasped to the arm that threatened him.

"It's okay," the voice said aggressively. "I'm just trying to help."

Jaskier's screams were muffled, but slowly they faded and his consciousness slipped away from him. His nails had dug into his assailants arm, but they fell limp as everything quickly went dark. His eyes, having finally calmed from searching for an escape route, still blurred and disoriented. He saw a similar flash of white, and suddenly felt a wave of comfort overcome him as he was stolen back to the land of dreams.

– –

Geralt cursed every god he could think of as he carefully situated the young man back on his bed, noting that most of the stitches he'd spent a healthy two hours threading were busted. He straightened his limbs and went for the bedside dresser. In their scuffle, he'd been forced to haphazardly fumble with his potions and tinctures, unfortunately losing most of his Swallow to a wet stained glass pile on the floor. He cursed again, knowing how long it'll take to hunt of more ingredients to make the complex potion.

He salvaged what he could of his overturned anesthetic and reached for a tin of salve. He found his stool, not far from the bedside, kicked it over and took a seat. He examined the man's body respectfully, mindful of his bits and observing his wounds. He thought it best to salve the busted stitches before threading them again, knowing he'd have to spend at least another hour working with stiff and pricked fingers.

He leaned over the young man, carefully tugging out each thread, casting them aside on the dresser. He took up the salve and gingerly tended to the sleeping man's wounds. He sneered at the ones around his shoulder, the deep bites still not showing signs of quick recovery. It would be another week before they even come close to showing improvement, which caused him to frown, knowing his guest would be staying longer than he was happy about.

He had his own injuries from 'that night,' but his fast healing took care of his gashes in hours. He couldn't say the same for the mangy mutt that dared to share his race. Not all monsters need to live up to the title, he scoffed, wiping his hands of excess salve and taking up his needle and twine.

The shoulder came first, needing sealed as soon as possible for the best chance at not getting infected. He pierced the skin as close as he could to the original hole, blood oozing from each open puncture. He was grateful it wasn't pus this time, slightly concerned at how quickly the infection add set in. The man was slight, his ribs already showing when he'd found him, now protruding with lack of nutrition. There wasn't much he could do in that respect, but knew that when the man woke from his elixir induced slumber he'd be starving.

He moved on to his hips, needing to roll the man towards him to access them all. His hands came closer to the man's groin that he would find comfortable, for multiple reasons, and kept his focus on his task. Most of the damage was to his right side, long lines from his hips and down his thighs, some even crossing over each other, as well as large bruises that was in its final stages of healing. He knew the circumstances in which these slashes were made, and felt sympathy for the victim, the rage slowly building inside him. His imagination concerning the event could easily fill in the blanks, knowing that this beast hadn't been gentle and never planned to be.

Once done, he set his spool and needle aside, and gently turning the man to his stomach, one last place to check. If all was well, he wouldn't need to disgrace the man's dignity any further. He carefully spread the man's cheeks, expertly examining the reddened scar nestled between them. The line was jagged, having torn faintly in different directions, stretching from the tip of his tailbone, across his hole, and down to his perineum. That sickened feeling returned to him at the recollection of his first inspection of the assault. He didn't have to stitch it, but it had needed constant monitoring, much like the rest of the man's body. It was healing nicely, no longer in need of care, the threat of infection long past.

He released the man's ass, taking the briefest of moments to admire the plush, round posterior, noting a couple of hidden freckles and moles dotting the cheeks.

Geralt snarled and jerked his head, baring his teeth and growling. "Fucking lecherous bastard," he cursed himself nastily. Why the fuck would he even think such a thing about a man who had gone through such a traumatic experience? He took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose and went to flip the man onto his back. He covered the brunet with the furs and recognized the heat of his skin was from overexertion and went for a wet cloth to cool his new house guest's head.

When all was right again, the man in his bed breathing heavily in a restless sleep, he thought it best to get fresh air and stretch his stiff body. Stitching wasn't quick work, but at least he was efficient. He stepped outside, finding a nice stump to sit on that overlooked a gently swaying field of green. He took in a deep inhale of the cedar air, his herb garden in full bloom, and straw he knew he was getting low on. He spied Roach, his chestnut mare, grazing in the fields, ears flickering and tail swishing. He knew she wouldn't go far, the horse more of a dog than a mount. She had been his companion for a long time, and that way she would remain. 

He didn't need people friends, they weren't necessary. He thought of his patient in his bed, unsure of how the man would treat the relationship they had. He was just a man who stumbled across an unfortunate accident and nursed him back to health, nothing more. When his guest was right and proper again, he'd take him to Oxenford, hand off a purse of crowns, and wish him well.

Sometimes it was best that the lone wolf be just that- alone. He chose this hermit life for a reason, and he wanted to keep it that way. Helping a stranger was just a man going out of his way to do a good deed. What did it matter that he was pretty?

Geralt snarled again, his brow furrowing. He needed to get his shit together instead of wondering if that greasy mop of hair would actually be soft when cleaned. He let out a growl of frustration and shook his head. Heal the boy, send him off, and go back to the isolated lifestyle he'd come to love.

Cut. And. Dry.

– –

Jaskier felt consciousness return to him, much less groggy than before. He remembered waking up in a bed in an unfamiliar place, but now it was night, the dimming embers of a hearth and soft moonlight the only light in the house. Something was comforting about the veil of night, even if the flickering shadows on the walls gave him chills.

His eyes gradually cleared from their blur, the muddled image of the hearth turning from an orange blob to its intended shape. His head pounded, and he groaned as he carefully pushed himself up into a sitting position, body screaming in agony. He glanced around, taking note of the layout of the room, trying to figure out where he was.

The room he was in wasn't much to talk about, his bed and a night table, a hearth across the room with a few minute details of flowers and knickknacks on the mantel. The night table was littered with bottles and tins and boxes of various degree and size. He didn't recognize what was in them, but he often couldn't tell the difference between beer and medicine. Where a door should be was an open doorway, wondering if it had been remover or if it was even built.

He suddenly felt an intense call of nature in his gut and decided he desperately needed a water closet.

He pulled back the furs, the chill of night cooling his skin nicely. He saw he was naked, recalling it from earlier. He grimaced at the ugly stitching on his hip and thigh, his heart rate picking up at the memory of the beast that violated his dignity. He also remembered the pain he'd felt in his shoulder and shot a hand to it, feeling the stitched mounds decorating his skin. He tensed and felt tears sting his eyes. 'Why did it have to be me?' Jaskier thought to himself, the hand at his side balling into a fist.

He decided he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself for five minutes and get up relieve his bladder, forcing his tears back and swallowing his sorrow. He carefully turned his body, swinging his legs off the bed. As he pushed himself up, he felt his legs tremble and shake, as if he hadn't walked in months. When he found decent footing, legs wobbling like a newborn deer, he took up the fur and wrapped it around his waist.

He found the open doorway and reached for a wall, guiding himself through the house. He froze at the sight of a second hearth, slightly brighter than the one in the bedroom, a figure sitting in a sizable armchair facing the fire. Not a figure, a man. Long ashen hair gracing his shoulders, a thin beard, and chest fairly thick, unsure of his build from a distance. At the sight of white hair, he felt a strange relief overcome him. He remained still for a few seconds longer, noticing the man's chest rising and falling in even measures, signaling the signs of sleep. This man was the one who was helping him, an old man who couldn't hurt him, what was he so worked up about?

He couldn't ignore the call anymore and glanced around for a water closet. His eyes failed in finding such a room, the darkness too difficult to shift through, but saw a door with a few moonbeams peeking through, deeming it the door to outside. He wobbled over using a table and a chair, and a support beam in the large entry way, the wooden floor creaking with each step.

Once at the door, he pulled it open easily, ignoring the annoyingly loud squealing of the hinges. He rushed outside, spread his legs to plant his himself, dropped the furs where he stood and let himself go.

The pressure faded from his gut, not caring where or what he was pissing on. He sighed, a twist of a grin spread on his lips, a strange laugh ghosting out of his throat. When he finished, he went to bend over to yank the furs back up, the night air colder than he would like. 

"Walking already?" A voice asked from behind him.

He swore he'd jumped out of his skin, falling forward, crashing with the ground and screaming in pain and disgust, having fallen into his own piss. A pair of hands came to his arms, trying to help him back up. "Easy, easy," the man said to him, his voice rough and quiet.

Jaskier fought only for a moment, but recalled the man was elderly. What did he really have to fear? He allowed himself to be handled, finding his footing and getting lifted by his armpits. The man bent down and quickly wrapped Jaskier's hips with the fur, the brunet flush with embarrassment. He turned around to face the older man, putting on a nice face. However, when he laid eyes on the man behind him, his entire perception of reality warped.

The man was, by no means, an old man. Maybe in his older adult hood, tired eyes and frown lines, but far from elderly. Strong jaw, lined with a thin beard that matched the color of his hair, and penetrating yellow eyes, black pupils small and rounded. A chest he saw as round was muscular, able to witness this fact from the top of his shirt, which was conveniently untied.

He swallowed hard as a blush of shame spread across his face, eyes trying to avoid the other man's. Something about those golden eyes looking at him made him feel like a wild animal. He cleared his throat and said, "Sorry. I couldn't find your water closet."

The white haired man shook his head, a hand coming around and resting gently on his lower back, and replied, "Come inside. Don't need you catching another fever."

– –

Jaskier sat in the large arm chair, furs around his shoulders, trying to warm up after his skin had chilled from the nighttime air. The man had given him some clothes, which were much bigger than him, a white shirt and tan trousers, along with a wet towel to clean himself. They were baggy due to his weight loss, not that there was much to lose. The man brought him food, a plate of bread and salted pork, as well as a mug of ale. Jaskier ate like a starving man, stuffing the bread into his mouth as soon as the plate touched his hand, and when he realized his host was staring at him, he stilled and blushed hotly.

The man had taken a seat on a stool across from him, having just returned with a few logs and stroking the fire. Jaskier swallowed his bite, took a quick drink and asked, "Where am I?"

The man crossed his arms and replied, "West of Heatherton. Near the coast."

Jaskier nodded, knowing he was half a days ride away from Blackbough, a thought was didn't seem as comforting as it should. He took another bite of his pork and asked, "Could I get your name?"

"Geralt," the man said smoothly, his eyes still carefully observing the brunet. "Geralt of..." he pondered for a moment, eyes looking away before returning and finished with, "nowhere."

Jaskier couldn't help but grin. "You have to be from somewhere." His smile fell when his host, Geralt he corrected, looked down, brows furrowing. "Sorry, I shouldn't offend someone who saved my life."

Geralt hummed and took a moment to respond, simply saying, "And what about you?"

"Jaskier," he answered meekly, taking another sip of ale. He savored each taste, the flavor better than any ale he'd ever had.

"Of?" Geralt held out his hand, suggesting him to continue, a teasing smirk on his lips.

Jaskier flushed at his question being thrown back at him. He took up his bread and took a small bite as he thought about where he was from. He didn't remember anything about his homeland or even what it was called. Just the memory of his parents leaving him at the tavern, chasing after them as they galloped away, screaming and begging for them to come back.

His heart clenched but he ignored it. No use crying over the past.

Blackbough wasn't much of a home either. Mr. Weldwiet once beat him within an inch of his life just for getting up in the middle of the night for a sip of water. The misses was the best part of his childhood, bandaging his wounds and kissing away his bruises. She even made sure to leave him a cup of water on his nightstand to prevent future incidents. But he didn't think she was enough for him to claim Blackbough as his home, not with the rest of the town agreeing he should become werewolf bait.

He met Geralt's gaze and gave a fake smile, trying to add some humor to his voice. "Well, Geralt of Nowhere. I'm Jaskier of Nowhere."

Geralt gave a light, throaty chuckle and replied, "Seems we have something in common."

Jaskier chuckled and took another bite of bread, humming in delight. His smiled faded after a few minutes, finishing his plate and holding it in his lap. The sting in his shoulder was returning but he ignored it, something more pressing on his mind.

"Geralt," Jaskier kept his eyes low, fingers drumming the plate. The air between them becoming thick with tension. "How did I get here?"

Geralt took a deep breath and asked, "Which version of the story do you want to hear?"

Jaskier sucked his lips in and closed his eyes. A disembodied growling from his mind made him shiver, but he needed to know. He needed to hear it. His face became serious, brows knitting together and spoke firmly, "All of it."

– –

Geralt stalked through the woods, silently hunting a deer for the last mile, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He prowled as the deer finally stopped and began grazing on the foliage of the forest floor. He inched forward, paws careful with every step, readying himself to pounce.

"Please! Stop!" Followed by a sickening screaming filled the silence, the deer raised it's head, ears flipping to the direction of the scream, then bounding further into the woods.

Geralt raised his furry head, listening carefully and sniffing the night air. He heard another screech of terror, along with the metallic scent of blood. He was on the move before he could think about it, following the cries until he spotted a clearing.

He burst through the tree line and, at the sight, felt his blood boil. A mangy werewolf with a sinister, toothy grin, was hunched over a thin human, the body limp and bleeding. He heard the wolf chuckle, saw it lick its long tongue up the body's back and shoulder, blood now coating it. He roared loudly, seeing the beast cut its eyes to him, it's twisted smile fading to a grimace.

The wolf lifted himself from the body, and stood before it and roared back. He watched it hunch its back, claws spread wide and the fur of his back spike up threateningly. "Fuck off!” It barked, snapping its jaws at him. “This one's mine!"

Geralt didn't hesitate, dashing forward and meeting the other wolf half way. They clashed, claws and teeth, biting and slashing, even some punching and kicking. Geralt managed to pin the mangy mutt down and chomped on his neck, tearing and ripping at his throat. He kept chewing until the wolf stopped moving, blood spraying everywhere, covering his face and fur.

He raised off the disgrace and hooked his claws into its mangled skin, dragging it to the edge of the cliff and chucking him over without guilt. He would have spit at the ground if he could in this form. He turned to look at the body, gashes along their hip and several punctures on the shoulder. He turned the body over to reveal a man, chest covered in his own blood, matting the hair there, and barely breathing. He spotted something move below the boy's spread legs and carefully spread them. Blood and what smelled of semen soaked the ground around his thighs, Geralt's stomach twisting with rage.

He knew he didn't have much time, scooping the boy up into his wolfish arms. He was mindful to keep his head up, hooking his elbow under his knees. He stood to leave, heavy steps slowed from the injuries he'd sustained in the battle, but refused to let the pain bother him. As he crossed the clearing, a slight shine got his eye, causing a double take to his right, and approached the foreign object. Upon closer inspection he saw it was an overturned instrument, the shiny lacquer reflecting off the moonlight. He was tempted to ignore it, but something inside him told him he needed to take it.

He leaned down, resting the man's lower half on the ground, keeping his body upright with his other arm. He reached for the strap of the instrument, a lute, and pulled it over his shoulder awkwardly. He slipped his arm back under the man's knees and resumed his trek back into the forest, moving as quickly as he could to his lone cabin.

– –

Geralt retold his story just as it happened, being very careful to leave out the fact he too was a werewolf. He simply changed the story of claws to a sword. He didn't feel it would be healthy for a victim of a werewolf attack to know he was in the presence of another. He wouldn't dare treat Jaskier the same, neither man nor beast deserved that treatment. Monsters deserved the mutt's fate.

"After that, I brought you here, cleaned and stitched you. Been nursing you for nearly two weeks," Geralt finished his story. He raised up and headed for the corner of his small kitchen, Jaskier watching him closely. He grabbed something he couldn't see and approached him, the object in question coming into view. “My lute,” Jaskier said with very weak enthusiasm.

Geralt handed over the instrument, Jaskier taking it into his hands, gripping the neck tightly. He could tell the man was more than grateful at the return of his belonging. He saw that the furs around the man had fallen slightly, reminding him of the injury that lay beneath. “May I check your wound?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier looked up at him and nodded slowly, craning his neck to the side and giving the man room. Geralt pulled the loose shirt to the side, checking what he could of the bite, the fire light not quiet desirable lighting. He gave a quick, but silent sniff, searching for signs of infection. "Hmm. Should be able to get the stitches out soon," he said reassuringly, lifting the shirt to recover the punctures.

“Why would it do that – this, to me?” Jaskier asked, his voice weary and Geralt sensed tears. He was shaking, gripping his lute tightly, as if he would disappear if he let it go.

Geralt didn't know what to say, because there was no easy answer. He couldn't speak for every monster out there, Jaskier was just lucky he'd happen to come across a generous one after unluckily encountering a heathen. More than likely a cursed wolf, one that turns under a full moon, considering there was one shining bright the night of the incident. It would explain its behavior, some where blood thirsty and murdered anything in sight, others routed into their own human psyche, resulting in rapacious behavior. Monsters weren't the only evil that existed in the world.

“There's no easy answer,” Geralt chose his words carefully. “Wrong place at the wrong time, perhaps.” He then made himself curious, and asked, “What were you even doing in the woods in the first place?”

Jaskier felt more tears flood his eyes, his lips quivering, but managed to hold back the sobs. He shook his head, trying to shake away the vulnerability he was put on display to the white haired man. He heard Geralt walk around him, the creak of the stool as he sat down, and felt shame wash over him, knowing the man could see him struggling.

“I,” he started with an angry smile, voice shaken, “was elected by my fellow kinsmen to lure out a werewolf, one that had been bothering the town for weeks. Forced me to wonder aimless through the woods and should I find the beast, lead it back to the town to they could kill it.” An ugly sob burst from his lips, but he quickly regained him control. “But how was I supposed to outrun such a thing?” He locked eyes with Geralt, eyes red rimmed, tears streaming down his face, his voice raising in volume. “I wasn't Geralt. I wasn't supposed to outrun it. I was sent to satisfy its hunger until they sent the next victim, if they ever did.”

Another harsh cry came from him, followed with a few sniffing sobs. His voice was quiet, the angry smile returning, “They hated me.” He shrugged and shook his head, “I don't know any other way to put it, Geralt. I think they sent me out there to die because they were too afraid to kill me themselves.” He paused again, fighting the lump in his throat, “I just... I wanted... I...”

The sobbing took over, unable to hold back anymore. He collapsed into his hands, the plate in his lap clanging on the floor along with his lute. Geralt didn't know what to say or do, so he just sat there, arms crossed and looking at the ground. His brows were furrowed, feeling a slight pain as the man cried heavily before him.

As the tears started to slow, sobs turned into frequent sniffling, Geralt took the chance to speak, cautious of what to say. “I know what it's like to feel unwanted. What it's like to have everyone around you wish death upon you. There's no easy way to accept that fact, but it's something I've learned to overcome.”

Jaskier glanced at him with swollen eyes, body still hunched over into his lap. “Is that why you live out here?”

Geralt nodded with a grunt. He took a deep breath and stood, “Why don't I warm some water and you can clean yourself. You've been bedridden for a while.” Jaskier nodded, listening to the man leave the room and step outside. Jaskier was lost in his thoughts, jarred from them when Geralt returned with a single bucket and placed it near the hearth to heat it. “You won't be able to get the stitching wet,” Geralt informed, “Could cause infection. You'll been to just use a cloth and avoid them.”

Jaskier nodded again and went back to staring at the floor. Geralt approached him, kneeling down to pick up the fallen lute and plate, which shockingly hadn't shattered. He set the lute to the side of the armchair, leaning it against the arm rest, and took up the plate. He went to stand, but something stopped him and he wasn't sure what was compelling him to do so.

He peered up, seeing cornflower blue eyes watching him. All emotion was lost to them, leaving a dullness in what he suspected were normally bright and full of happiness. Both of them examined each other, exploring each small detail of the others face. Geralt noticed, that even looking past the gauntness of his cheeks, there was once a softness in them, and obvious high cheekbones. A bottom lip more plump that the top, ears that had a slight point to them, wondering the man may have elf somewhere in his lineage.

Geralt pulled himself out of his trance and stood up quickly, Jaskier's eyes following up like a lost puppy. “I'll get you some more to eat while you wait,” he said, taking the plate and heading for his pantry.

Jaskier didn't feel like eating anymore, even though he knew what he ate earlier wasn't enough to sate him. He didn't want to be rude and took the plate Geralt handed him, the man taking up his mug as well to refill it. “Water, please,” Jaskier asked politely, the man not signaling he acknowledged him, but returned with a fresh cup of water.

He ate in silence, nibbling a few bits of bread and cheese, an invisible grin appearing on his face that Geralt thought to bring him a dessert. The man may have looked menacing, but under that rough exterior was a generous, considerate person. He picked off a few pieces of the cheese, but found he just didn't want to eat anymore.

“Water's heated,” Geralt announced, lifting the bucket and holding it, waiting for Jaskier to follow him into the other room. Jaskier did just so, setting the plate on the nearest table. They entered a washroom, complete with a tub, a looking glass, and various soaps and sundries. Geralt set the bucket in the tub, grabbing for a small stool and placing it next to it. “There's a shaving kit by the mirror.” Geralt pointed across the room, “Use it if you like.”

Jaskier nodded and watched Geralt leave the room, closing the door behind him. He decided to head for the mirror, doing his best to remove his shirt with his injured shoulder. He folded it as neatly as possible and set it on a small table. He approached the looking glass and felt his heart sink.

Angry red blotches across his skin, like a necklace of future scars, marking him as a victim for the rest of his life. He felt the telltale sign of tears returning, but refused to let them fall, sucking in a deep breath and exhaling through his nose. He examined his face, noting the thickness of the beard that now covered his lips and jaw. It was fairly thin and manageable, and was tempted with the idea of keeping it, but he decided to pass and began prepping the shaving cream.

He lathered his face and took up the razor, carefully removing the hair from his face. He's nicked himself a couple times, as he normally did, and wiped off the remnants of the cream. He happened to check his chest hair, spotting a spot of matted hair. He tugged at it, seeing that it was his own dried blood. His stomach twisted, but knew he couldn't wash it out. He took up the razor, and trimmed it off, leaving a comical bald patch on his pectoral. He didn't have the energy to shave the rest of his hair, so he left it as is.

He stripped his trousers and hissed as the fabric grazed his hip. He checked it out, not realizing how extensive the damage had been. Stitched lines down his thigh, and some even trailing inward to his crotch. He felt bile rise in his throat, but he swallowed it down and whispered to himself, “Bath, Jaskier. You need a bath.”

He worked himself into the wooden tub, impressed by the size, guessing at least two people could fit inside. He took the cloth he was given and dipped it into the bucket as he sat down on the short stool. He rinsed himself first, wetting his hair and scrubbing his face. When he was good and wet, he spotted a soaps and a couple oils. “Must think I smell bad,” he muttered to himself with a forced grin. “Or I'm over thinking it,” he rationalized.

He took up the soap and lathered, the scent nothing to get excited about, but it did his job. He felt the grease and grim slip off him in suds, scrubbing every inch. From behind his ears to between his toes, he missed nothing, careful of his stitches. He cleaned his cloth and began ridding himself of the suds. He picked up the bucket, a little heavier than he expected and dumped it over his head. He slicked his hair back and wiped his eyes, then took up a bottle of oil, testing the scent. Dandelions and buttercups. He hummed at the scent finding it enjoyable and dabbed it in places he knew would flatter himself. He couldn't help but laugh at himself, having become so vain when there was no one for him to show off to. There was Geralt, but...

He froze, the thought startling himself. He could easily admit that Geralt was a very handsome man, tall and strong, and a very caring person. He wasn't even sure if that attractiveness was something he was interested in. He'd never been with a woman before, nor a man.

He paused again, the idea of virginity making his heart clench. Of course he'd been with a man. No, a beast. A monster that stole away his virtue and dignity, not caring about his feelings or gentleness. As the tears started to come back to him, he suddenly found himself far more curious that he wanted to be.

He shifted his positioning on the step stool, leaning forward and reaching behind himself. He'd been extra attentive to his cleanliness, so he had no fear in feeling himself in his nether regions. His finger slid down his crease, feeling something unnatural there. The further down he felt, the more he felt himself shake. Raised skin the trailed most of his backside, proof of his purity was now sullied.

He jerked his hand away, like the scar had burned him. He stared at his hand, as if a finger was missing, and watched it tremble. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and the sobs erupted from his lips, face twisting in disgust. His crying was ugly and loud, not caring who heard his woe. He wrapped his arms around himself and just... cried.

Geralt was close to the door, having heard the first bouts of sobs, wanting to come check on Jaskier, but stopped himself as the crying continued. He furrowed his brow, frowned and stepped away from the door and heading outside.


	2. Chapter 2

After exiting the washroom, Jaskier did his best to hide his emotional breakdown, but Geralt knew better. He'd easily heard everything but he didn't see it necessary to call him out on it. This was something Jaskier needed to work through himself. The urge he felt to rush into the room and comfort him was completely irrational and had no desire in getting himself any more involved than he already was. Seeing the puffy eyes and tear streaks brought out something primal in him and it took every ounce to fight it.

“I have a headache,” Jaskier said shamefully, keeping his eyes low and away from the white haired man. Geralt simply stood, went to the bedroom and collected a small bottle and handed it to him.

“Should help,” he replied, looking a little too closely at the still damp hair was already softer looking than before. He grunted and clenched his fists and said roughly, “Just rest.” Then he stomped out of the cabin.

He hurried across his yard, heading for Roach's stable, needing something to distract himself from the illogical emotions. Emotions and feelings were ugly things that just got you hurt in the end. He didn't like them, so he avoided them. The only amount of love he felt for something was for Roach, a horse that had taken to him surprisingly well, considering most animals were terrified of him. Maybe she was a bit strange in the head, but he didn't mind. He took care of her and she took care of him, and that was all he needed.

He found Roach roaming the outside of her stable, enjoying the grass around it. She raised her head and snorted happily, leaning her nose towards his outstretched hand. "Evening, Roach," he said glumly, stroking her snout and down the white stripe of her face.

She snorted again, lips emphasizing her enthusiasm that he'd come to visit her. He walked past her to the stable, finding a large burlap sack and untying it. He reached inside and took out a handful of oats, turning to see she was following closely behind him. He held out his cupped palm and she immediately started munching on the oats.

He grunted contently, and pet her face again as she grunted in response to his treat. "Sorry," he apologized to her, "been busy. I'll take you out riding soon."

She nickered after finishing her oats, nudging his hand for more. He was going to refuse, but her persistence got the better of him. He couldn't help but spoil her. He scooped up another helping and let her eat from his palm.

She finished her second helping, Geralt petting her ear and turning, heading towards his garden. She trailed right behind, coming up to his side, head bobbing with each step. He rounded the side of the cabin, spotting his garden, lush and ready to harvest. Various herbs and vegetables were in full bloom, and Geralt frowned at the thought that he hadn't been able to collect his produce with Jaskier taking up all his time. “Hmm, maybe I'll put him to work,” Geralt grumbled, crossing his arms.

He glanced up to the tree line, his eyes easily penetrating the darkness. He turned and looked at Roach, and asked, “Want to go for a walk?”

She bounced her head happily, neighing a little louder than he was comfortable, but she began following him as he entered the woods. He didn't want anywhere particular, just wanting to clear his head. Walking among the trees was enough to let his mind go blanket and not think about anything, especially with Roach at his side. He wasn't sure how long he'd been venturing around the trees, but when he returned, his nose always leading him back home.

He lead Roach back to her stable, and gave her a few more pets before deciding to go back inside. He was tired and needed to sleep. He just hoped the sleeping effects of the medicine he'd given Jaskier had kicked in so they didn't have anymore awkward conversations or interactions.

Geralt made it back into the cabin, doing his best to be quiet incase Jaskier had fallen asleep. And luckily, he was right. Nestled in the armchair, wrapped in his fur blanket, Jaskier slept soundly. He was turned a bit crooked and looked uncomfortable, but seemed to be at peace. A type of peace Geralt hadn't seen on his face since he'd brought him in. The closer he got, the more he found he couldn't look away from him.

He knew he couldn't just leave him there or else they'd run the risk of the stitches popping again. He leaned over, carefully tugging the furs back and wedging his arms under Jaskier's back and knees. He lifted the brunet slowly, curling him into his chest to keep his head from lulling around. He made his way through the cabin and rest Jaskier on the bed, straightening his arms and legs. He went back for the furs and covered the man, knowing nighttime in Velen was always chillier than expected. 

Geralt's hands lingered a little longer than they should have, and for reasons unknown to him, he didn't notice. He was too busy staring at the plush bottom lip that was starting to make him needy. He raised a hand, eyeing the soft hair he has been wanting to feel since Jaskier had gotten finished with his bath. He knew he shouldn't touch it, but his fingers were already lacing through the thick mop. It was softer than a goose down pillow, silkier than velvet, and felt as warm as it looked.

He couldn't help himself to running his hand through the hair, several slow pushes, feeling it brush him gently on the wrist. Jaskier moaned and twitched a bit, turning his head in his sleep, causing Geralt to yank his hand away. Thankfully, Jaskier didn't wake up, but somehow appeared more at peace than earlier.

He sighed as he raised up and stepped away from the young man. He cursed himself for such a simple thing to break his resolve. But it was out of his system now. He felt the brunet's hair and now he could forget about it.

He found his bedroom in the corner of the room. He rolled it out, fluffing it and taking the extra pillow and laying it at the head. He took a few logs and stroked the fire in the bedroom, watching it come back to life and bring warmth. He laid down on his bed roll, which was pressed against a far wall, facing Jaskier's sleeping form. He found himself staring at the man before rolling over, tucking an arm under the pillow, and finding a restless sleep.

– –

The next morning, Jaskier was gradually pulled from his groggy sleep by the sound of rhythmic thwaking. Every minute another thwak came, beginning to become annoying as his eyes fought to stay awake. He mushed his face into his pillow, groaned and eventually pushed himself out of bed, his shoulder stiffness making it a slow process. Out of bed, he found the water closet, did his business, and went hunting for the origin of the sound.

He stepped outside, scanning the area, only to feel a blush creep across his features at the sight of Geralt shirtless and chopping wood. He watched the muscles flex as the white haired man leaned over to his log pile, stood it up on a stump, then swing his ax down expertly. Sweat glistened on his pale skin, to which Jaskier noticed the heavy amount of scars litter his body. Across his chest and arms and trailing down his trousers. Jaskier had to stop himself from staring when he noticed Geralt had stopped and was staring at him.

They just looked at each other for an uncomfortably long time before Jaskier cleared his throat and said, “I, uh, wanted to thank you for saving me.” Geralt hummed and just stood there. Jaskier felt awkward at the situation and continued, “So, I'd like to repay you in some way.” Geralt raised a brow. “There has to be something I could do.”

The white haired man thought for a moment, then slowly nodded, “Do you know how to harvest a garden?”

Jaskier perked up and replied, “Yes, of course. I grew up in a farm town after all.”

Geralt took his ax back up, and slammed it down into the stump, Jaskier watching it stand on his head. Jaskier couldn't help but examine his host's back, seeing that it was also covered in scars. Slashes, stabs, craters of missing flesh, the sight making his stomach sink. While the white haired man obviously had an amazingly fit body, his skin told a story of a life of pain.

'I know what it's like to feel unwanted. What it's like to have everyone around you wish death upon you.'

Geralt led the way to his garden, the brunet verbalizing his awe behind him. “Wow, I've never seen a garden so... green!”

Geralt didn't acknowledge him and took up a basket that rest near the wall of his cabin. He handed it to Jaskier and said, “Focus on the herbs first. Could hurt your shoulder.”

As soon as the basket was in Jaskier's grasp, Geralt brushed past him and said nothing else. Jaskier gave him a concerned look, but it was promptly ignored and he went back to chopping wood. The brunet peered into the basket, seeing sheers and a hand rake, then glanced at the garden. He sighed, letting Geralt's standoffish behavior roll of his back and at the produce that awaited him. He took out the sheers and went to work.

– –

The next few days were filled with Jaskier tending to the garden, along with hours of lute playing and a few hushed songs. Geralt spent a lot of time outside, chopping wood for the coming winter, hunting for dinner while Jaskier typically sat on a stump in the yard. Occasionally Jaskier would brush Roach's coat and feed her the oats Geralt didn't know he'd found, along with assisting in the laundering.

There was something comforting and serene about the two of them coexisting. They spent most nights talking about basic things, or not at all, Geralt not wanting to get too personal, leaving Jaskier to taking up reading from Geralt's bookshelf. Books weren't common in Blackbough. Not many of the townsfolk even knew how to read. He had basic knowledge from his childhood, his parents ensuring he learned, but with several years without reading made it difficult to read some of Geralt's books.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said from his stump, the man stopping for a moment and wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. He made eye contact with the brunet and Jaskier felt his chest tighten. Any time Geralt spent time outside, he was shirtless, today was no different. Every time he laid his eyes on the man's lightly furred chest, his insides turned to mush. He knew he shouldn't think this way, after what happened to him, but Geralt was gentle with him, even thought he knew the man would never admit it.

Occasionally, he was aggressive in tone, but Jaskier could tell the man was never truly mad at him. He never touched him without necessity, such as catching him when he stumbles or checking his injuries. He kept his distance, although he wasn't sure for what reason.

“Could I take a bath tonight?”

It was an odd question, Geralt taken off guard, but remembered that he'd told Jaskier he couldn't bathe until his stitches came out. He nodded to him and said, “Go inside, I'll be in momentarily.”

Jaskier stood, taking up his lute and made his way inside, Geralt acknowledging that his steps were still unsure. He searched around his work area, spying his rag, wiping away his sweat along his face and chest before finding his shirt and slipping it back over his head. He slammed his ax back into his stump and headed for the cabin.

He found Jaskier sitting on the stool rather than the armchair, his supply box sitting in his lap and waiting. Geralt paused for only a moment, knowing he had to start heating the water before he got to work on removing the brunet's stitches. He took up the buckets in the corner, head back outside to his water well. He pumped them as full as the could go, then took them inside and set them next to the fire, making multiple trips until they were all filled. He found his sweat rag and wiped his face clean a second time and went for the arm chair.

He sat behind Jaskier and said, “I need you to remove your shirt.” Jaskier nodded and did just that, striping the shirt and resting it on the floor in a pile, handing the box to Geralt. The large man fumbled with the box, seeking out small sheers and pliers. “This shouldn't hurt, but if you feel any discomfort, say something.”

“Okay,” Jaskier replied, Geralt able to detect the contentment in his voice. He wasn't sure if he liked that.

Carefully, he examined his shoulder, double checking for any issues he may have missed. He took up his sheers and went to work, snipping each thread so he would be able to slip them out. After the fifth snip, Jaskier asked, “Where did you learn how to tend to stitches?”

Geralt hesitated for a second. He'd promised himself he wouldn't talk about personal matters, but the words started spilling out before he had the chance to stop. “I was raised in the Temple of Melitele. There was always someone coming in for medical attention, mostly women and children. I spent a lot of time with them and learning how to heal them. My mother made sure I learned.”

“You're mother was a priestess?” Jaskier laughed teasingly and slightly shocked.

“No,” Geralt sighed, finishing his clipping of the stitches on Jaskier's back, placing his sheers aside. “Nenneke just adopted me.”

“Ah,” the brunet's voice lowered, as if feeling bad for him. “You're an orphan too?”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed in response. “My father was killed when I was young, I don't remember my mother. Nenneke was the closest thing I've ever had to either parent, so it's just a habit to call her such.”

Jaskier winced as a thread was pulled from his skin. It didn't hurt, just very bizarre in sensation. “So she taught you how to do things like this?” he asked through his teeth.

Geralt hummed again, taking out a second thread before continuing, “I got a lot of my teachings during the war. Many injured civilians and people begging for sanctuary. They were short on hands during that time. So she made me shadow her until I was on par with the other priestess'. Even delivered a few babies.” He said the last bit with a smile.

Jaskier chuckled, “Must have been a fun time, living in a temple full of women. Especially a strapping man such as yourself.”

Geralt didn't comment. He wouldn't deny he had enjoyed himself while at the Temple, even bedding a few of the women. But something about answering Jaskier gave him a sour taste in his mouth. He took another thread between the irons of the pliers and yanked it a little harder than necessary and heard a sharp hiss. “What about you? You're childhood. Since you wish to be so nosy about mine.”

Jaskier gave a muffled laugh, feeling as if he'd struck a nerve with Geralt. He cleared his throat and answered, “My folks abandoned me a decade ago, left me in Blackbough. I didn't know why, but they seemed sure something bad would happen if I wasn't left behind.” Geralt remained silent, letting the man talk as much as he wanted, continuing his work. “I was adopted by a farmer whose wife insisted I have a roof over my head. But they called me a bad omen. A few years later, Nilfgaard came through, conscripting young and able men for their army and the town blamed me.”

Jaskier fell quiet as Geralt finished with his back, asking him to turn around and face him. The brunet obeyed, keeping his gaze turned away from him, a blush across his cheeks. The scent the werewolf detected from Jaskier weren't of embarrassment, but of sadness. The blush was from him trying to fight back tears. Geralt sighed through his nose and took his sheers back up, “Where'd you learn to play the lute?”

Geralt thought that he talked about something that made the man happy, it would calm him down. He didn't feel like consoling the man. Jaskier perked up a bit, “Self taught.”

He noted the pride the brunet had in his voice, although shaky from fighting back his emotions. “Hmm,” Geralt mumbled, actually impressed by his words. “I took you for an Oxenford man.”

Jaskier half laughed and shook his head. “If only.”

The room fell silent as Geralt worked on his shoulder, Jaskier's neck growing stiff from leaning it to the side. Each string was placed in a pile on the arm of his chair, the white haired man meticulous in every move and pull he made on Jaskier's skin. His fingers probed the mounds of scar tissue, wanting to take a moment to admire his hard work.

“If you'll excuse me,” Geralt said, standing the walking around Jaskier to the buckets of water. He checked their temperature, back of the palm, and hummed when he felt they were at the right heat. He took up the buckets and made his way to his washroom, dumping all the buckets into the large wooden tub. A few trips later, the tub was filled and steaming. He dipped his hand in, noting it was too hot for Jaskier, and decided it best to wait a little longer before letting him bathe.

Back into the den he went, Jaskier finding his shirt and slipping it back on. “We need to get the ones on your hip,” Geralt reminded.

The brunet stiffened and nodded slowly, obviously nervous by the idea. He would have to drop his trousers for Geralt to remove them. Sure, Geralt had spent two weeks looking at his nakedness, but that was while he was sick and helpless. His being conscious was much different. “Where should we...” Jaskier trailed off, knowing Geralt understood.

“Bedroom,” the larger man answered. “Pants off. And you can cover yourself, just leave the stitching exposed.”

Jaskier obeyed and went for the bedroom, slipping off his trousers and laying on the bed, stitched hip up. He took the blanket and tucked it between his legs, and holding it over his crotch. A minute past before Geralt came through the door, supply box and stool in hand. He sat them next to the bed and got ready to finish clearing the stitches.

Jaskier tensed at the feel of Geralt's hands on his skin. They didn't bother him earlier, but now that he lay here, exposed and naked from the waist down, something about it was different. Geralt's fingers burned and left an impression with every bit he touched. If it wasn't for Geralt clipping away strings just a few inches from his delicate places, he might have actually gotten aroused.

Jaskier desperately wanted to change the mood in the room and said, “So what's it like delivering a baby?”

– –

Jaskier took his bath, taking as long as he could until the water ran cold. The warmth relaxed his body to the point that nothing hurt anymore. With the constant chores around the house, his feet, his back, just about everything was sore. He dabbed on his floral oil and dressed, coming out with a towel around his head, drying it gingerly. He saw Geralt stroking the fire in the den, the room brightly lit by the hearth and candelabras. When he glanced out the window, he saw the sun had set a long time ago and he immediately felt guilty.

“Sorry,” Jaskier apologized sheepishly, “I shouldn't have taken so long.”

“It's fine,” Geralt replied, not looking at him. He grabbed at the buckets in front of the fire, not making Jaskier feel any better knowing Geralt had to warm up more bath water. He was just glad he drained it before leaving the washroom. Geralt pushed past him, like normal, and the brunet sunk his head in shame. It didn't feel fine, but there was no convincing the white haired man and he didn't have to test his theory to know anything he said wouldn't matter.

When Geralt sealed himself in the washroom, Jaskier decided it best to not dwell on his host's reserved nature. He went to find his lute, which had been placed in the corner of the room. He took it up and sat in the armchair, testing the chords and thinking of a song to play.

One the other side of the door, Geralt lounged in the tub, elbows resting on the edge and his head thrown back. He let the heat relax him, the last few days being more stressful than he had imagined. Taking care of Jaskier had been a heavy burden to bare, but now that he was up and about, talking and asking questions and always playing that damned lute made him wonder if he'd really made the right decision.

He cursed the thought of Jaskier becoming a fuck toy to a werewolf, but he could have easily rescued the man and took him to the nearest village. Of course the nearest was Blackbough, to which he learned wouldn't have been the best choice. For all he knew, they would have just let him die or sent him back out into the wild. The thought of Jaskier being dead lit a spark in his chest he grimaced at, dreading the idea of it.

He scrubbed his body, washing his hair and rinsed quickly, ready to just sit and soak for the next hour while he left Jaskier to his own devices. Everything was quiet and peaceful, just the way he liked it, until single chord plucking echoed from the other side of the door. It sounded as if he was testing a melody, the notes low and short. He wasn't, by any means, and expert in music, but he felt Jaskier knew what he was doing when writing or playing a song.

The melody played over and over, but he found it wasn't as annoying as the more upbeat tunes he'd play while taking a break from one of the many household chores he'd been given. The song sounded... sad. He felt a sense of melancholy and sadness grace his skin, wondering if the song was something the brunet had rehearsed or was playing on a whim. He wondered if this was how all musicians were, playing tunes that reflected their feelings or if they played them because they liked them.

It wasn't too long before the melody began changing, leading the song, and he heard a muffled voice. He tuned in his hearing, recognizing Jaskier's voice softly singing along. The words were just as melancholic as the notes and Geralt felt everyone of them. They were of love and loss, of abandonment and the search of ones self, of forgiveness and redemption. It reminded Geralt of home, and who he used to be. What he used to be.

There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't think of his childhood and his father. His father had been just another rapacious wolf, taking his fill of women, willingly or no. His real mother had been an unfortunate accident, and had died shortly after his second winter. His father was all he knew, and took after him in many ways.

It wasn't until a grey haired Witcher showed up a decade later to slay the beast that was his father, and the Witcher, confusing Geralt as one of the wolf's victims was taken to the Temple. He'd been quiet rambunctious and it took every once of patience and discipline for Nenneke to tame the beast inside Geralt. He'd never harmed women in the way his father had, having not achieved his werewolf until he was fifteen, but that didn't prevent him from raiding the stockade for unsuspecting livestock.

Nenneke had taught him how to control himself, to calm the beast and remain within his own mind. She taught him meditation and finding ones center, which eventually turned him into the cool headed man he was today. The longevity of werewolves was a mystery, even to himself, but he'd forgotten how many years had passed since his emancipation, and he closed his eyes to give a silent condolence to the late Nenneke.

After her death, Geralt had been unable to cope with the loss of the only person he truly considered his parent. He left the temple afterward, finding trouble everywhere he went. Taverns were his favorite places to brawl at, even taking a few stabs of the knife in his torso. When men weren't enough he took to prowling the countryside, deep in places most humans were too scared to travel.

Monsters of all sorts entertained him, leaving him with a lifetime of battle scars that he looked back on fondly. He'd found a strange calling in life, killing monsters that threatened humans. Monsters like his father. He never regretted killing humans that would attack another, but no one was above the laws on nature.

He was pulled from his thoughts when the music stopped, his head turned towards the door as if expecting Jaskier to begin playing again, but no sound came. Becoming impatient with the lack of music, Geralt emerged from his bath earlier than planned, and dressed. He entered the kitchen and saw Jaskier picking at the pantry for something to eat. He looked at Geralt like a child who had been just caught stealing cookies before dinner and began to put things back.

"It's fine," Geralf approved, moving for the pantry himself and grabbed a bottle of ale. He found two mugs and filled them, taking them to the table in the den, setting one on either side. 

Jaskier watched Geralt get them a drink, so he decided to gather enough food on his plate for the both of them. Bread, smoked meat and a couple apples from the apple tree growing near the garden. He went to the table, setting the plate between the mugs and took a seat across from Geralt.

They were silent, as dinner was in the cabin, picking at the plate and sipping their ale. Jaskier knew it was late, and they would go to bed like normal after they ate. He couldn't help but think of how Geralt made him sleep in the bed while the white haired man slept on the floor. It didn't feel right, and made him feel like he was intruding on the basic pleasures of Geralt's life.

"You should take the bed tonight," Jaskier said after swallowing a bit of smoked deer meat.

Geralt shook his head and answered, "It's fine."

Jaskier sighed, getting tired of Geralt constantly letting him do as he pleased. "It's not fine, Geralt. You always say it is but it's not."

Geralt frowned, his brows curling in anger, "Don't make this out to be bigger that it is."

"I don't feel comfortable sleeping in your bed while you sleep on the floor," Jaskier admitted, standing firmly against him.

Geralt stood to leave but instead he turned around, arms stretched out wide, an angry expression on his face. "Consider it my hospitality," he snapped, dropping his arms.

"Look," Jaskier stood to go after him, following him into the moonlight night. "I understand that you're trying to be nice, but it's unnecessary. I'm healed! I can take sleeping on the floor."

Geralt stopped and spun around, knowing Jaskier was going to continue trailing him. "If that's the case then why are you still here? You don't need me to take care of you anymore." Geralt's words were harsh and biting.

"All I've done," Jaskier pointed an accusing finger at him, biting back, " is try to be a decent guest. But every time I try to start a conversation you just storm off or 'hmm, I'm going to go chop wood now.'"

Jaskier's mocking of him hit a nerve and he barked, "Maybe I don't want you getting comfortable here! Maybe," Geralt started closing the distance between them, voice dropping into a low growl, "I don't want you here."

Jaskier reared back, his chest stinging, swallowing hard at Geralt's harsh words. Tears stung his eyes as he tried to keep his voice steady, "All I've done, is try to repay your kindness. And all I get is this angry, broody beast of a man with no regard for anything. I'm just trying to be your friend, Geral-"

Geralt cut him off, closing the distance between them. He easily towered over Jaskier, staring down at him threateningly. "I don't want friends, Jaskier! I don't want you!"

Jaskier couldn't speak, any and all words he could have said were lost to the wind. He felt his heart strings tug and the pain in his chest only worsened. Tears began flooding his eyes, streaking down his cheeks. He didn't say anything as Geralt turned away from him, marching for Roach's stable, and clenched his fists as his emotions got the better of him. "I'm sorry I tried. I'm leaving now," were the last words he managed to get out before stomping towards the woods.

Geralt tended to something unimportant in the stable, pretending he was distracted until the sound of Jaskier's footsteps were no longer audible. He didn't want to care that the man was angry at him. He didn't want to care that the only house guest he's ever had now hated him. He didn't want to care that he wouldn't see that warm smile again, or the life giving laugh, or the songs that got stuck in his head while he chopped wood. He didn't want to care that all the joy he'd hidden away inside himself was now leaving with him.

"Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut coming soon to a theater near you... <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a little longer than I wanted to finish editing this bad boy but I hope the wait was worth it.

Jaskier stomped through the forest, swinging hims arms and cursing Geralt every step of the way. "Bloody bastard... arsehole... selfish, broody... son of a whore!"

His eyes stared at the ground, trying to watch out for tree roots and fallen limbs, stumbling occasionally at ones he couldn't see. It was his own fault he left without a lantern or a torch, but it was too late now. He needed to get away from Geralt, knowing there was no way to salvage a scrap of their relationship, if there even was one. Most of their days had been spent with Geralt avoiding him, only speaking to him when he needed to. So, maybe it was for the better he left, he was just becoming a burden.

And yet, he felt deep down, that this wasn't how things were meant to be. He was happy with Geralt, even if they didn't spend a lot of time together. The man had spent time taking care of him, nursing his wounds, feeding him, warming his bathwater, and making sure he didn't hurt himself. It just felt unnatural. He didn't believe Geralt hated him, he wouldn't have tolerated him as long as he had.

Jaskier sighed harshly, stopping his rampage to try and hold off another wave of tears. He'd cried enough as it was, but the pain in his heart was just too much. He wanted to turn back, beg for Geralt's forgiveness and let things go back to normal. But what even was normal anymore?

His back found the nearest tree, arms falling to his sides, head hung low. He slowly slid down until he was curled into his knees, tears already forming in his eyes. He was cold and already missed the warm hearth Geralt stroked for him every night. He missed the comfortable silence they had created together, and the way he caught Geralt looking at him when he thought he wasn't looking. He missed how Geralt never complained about his lute playing or his singing, like the people of Blackbough had.

He just missed Geralt.

The snapping of a twig pulled Jaskier from his wallowing, his eyes darting around for the source of the person interrupting his moment. It wasn't until he heard low growling that his heart rate started to pick up, the fear that another wolf searching for another 'playmate' was sniffing him out. Instead of a werewolf, a normal wolf, small and baring it's teeth made it's appearance, not making Jaskier feel any better.

He quickly stood, knowing he needed to get some distance between himself and the wolf, raising his hands and walking back slowly. “Nice, doggy,” Jaskier said to it, unsure of the necessity of talking to an animal that couldn't talk back. The wolf continued to growl at him, getting more and more aggressive as it stalked towards him.

A second growl came from behind, Jaskier spinning around to see it was closer than the other. “Easy now,” he tried again, the second wolf barking loudly at him, the hair along their spine standing on end. It wasn't until he saw a third wolf that he knew he was royally fucked. “Shitshitshit!”

Without thinking, Jaskier turned and ran, no clear direction other than to get away. He hated how familiar this felt, but knew if he gave up, he'd never forgive himself. He made it through one attack, he could survive another one. Right?

He could hear them trailing behind him, barking and howling as they closed the distance. He took a turn, hoping it would help himself get away, but he should have known better when they kept close to him. Tears streamed down his face as his brain conjured all the possible ways the wolves could kill him. He was suddenly slammed onto his ass, head disoriented from the collision. He shook his head, holding himself up with his hands, then glanced up. His breathing stopped and his heart leaped into his throat.

Before him stood a tall, scrawny being, body like a dead tree covered in moss and mold with a head that of a deer skull, vines wrapping around the antlers. The creature looked at him, at least he thought it was considering it had no eyes, and observed him as one did a carcass. It's head came close to him, the sound of creaking wood and teeth clinking together were it's only form of communication. He didn't know what it was saying or what it wanted, but he knew that if he wanted to live, he needed to get away from this thing now.

A long, gangling arm stretched out towards him, spindly fingers, all various lengths and shapes, reaching for his face. The finger tips felt strangely cold as they swept down his cheek, testing the tears that fell there. The chipped nose of the skull dipped closer, audibly sniffed him, the creature immediately rearing back and hissing, the hand coming back to itself in disgust. “You... stink of... wolf,” the rotted creature snarled in a wispy, disembodied voice.

Before Jaskier could react, the branch like hand dashed forward and gripped his throat, clenching it so tight he couldn't breathe. The creature effortlessly lifted the man, holding him high above the ground, still hissing but much louder and more threatening. With a flick of it's arm, Jaskier was flung across the forest, slamming into a large tree, crying in pain as he tried to catch his breath. Wolves closed in around him, the monster approaching them with an obvious goal in mind.

“Please,” Jaskier whimpered, his breath shaky.

Before the twiggy fingers found his throat again, a booming, guttural howl echoed throughout the trees, making Jaskier's ears hurt. He flinched as the roar continued to blast around them, drawing the attention of the wolves and the creature away from him. He followed their gaze until he met a sight he wasn't sure he was happy to see.

Another creature, massive and white as ash, teeth shining from it's open maw as it growled. It's hands were out wide, obvious that the monster was looking for a fight. The furry beast was clearly a werewolf, but Jaskier knew something was different about them, but he couldn't tell what, his brain too raddled with fear to figure it out. The beast stalked forward, it's focus on the half dead monster that previously wished death upon him.

“Abomination,” the skull headed monster hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at the wolf. “You taint another... with stench.” The wolf stomped around, the low rumble still emitting from behind it's fangs. “Suffer... beast!”

With a swing of the rotting monster's arm, the wolves launched at the werewolf, some leaping at it, others going for it's legs. Jaskier noticed there was far more wolves than before, all of them aimed at the werewolf. With the distraction, he rationalized that now was a good time to run away, but he couldn't. Seeing this werewolf, while it should terrify him to his core made him feel something he couldn't describe. He needed to stay and he didn't know why.

The white beast roared as it batted away an attacking wolf, slashing it out of the air with a yelp. A second wolf bit into the werewolf's forearm, but it was easily shaken off and slammed into a nearby tree. The ones at it's feet were easily disposed of with a clawed hand grabbing at them and launching them away. Just as another wave of wolves came rushing at the beast, it roared again, head aimed high into the sky, Jaskier able to feel it vibrate his being.

The wolves were relentless, but so was the werewolf, attacking and dodging with ease. It was apparent the werewolf was no weakling, fighting back the dogs and even clawing them enough to kill them. Some of the wolves scurried off, but other's remained to fight and meet their doom. As the werewolf stood victorious, it sought out a new target, spying the deer skull creature and growling.

In a flash, the werewolf darted towards it, Jaskier barely able to roll out of the way before both monsters slammed in the massive tree. The rotted creature hissed as it slapped at the werewolf's face, the wolf easily taking the hit and biting down on it's neck. It shrieked in agony, the sound like a nails on glass, Jaskier covering his ears. With the creature distracted, the werewolf took advantage of the moment and grasped it's foe's skull. It raised the creature, rearing it's arm back, and slamming the monster against the tree.

Over and over it crushed the creature's head into the trunk, Jaskier unable to stand the ear piercing cries that made his head hurt. The skull cracked, an antler falling to the earth, long gashes ran down the werewolf's arm as it fought it's damnedest to fight back. The wolf gripped the creature's neck, roaring menacing in it's skull face, before pulling his arms apart, Jaskier sickened by the screams of pain. Suddenly, the screeching stopped, Jaskier's eyes unscrewing and slowly looking around.

He saw the white werewolf holding the skull in one hand by it's eye holes and it's limp body in the other, panting heavily as blood dripped down its arm. The wolf tossed the dead monster to the ground, as if it were a sack of grain it was tired of carrying. Jaskier rolled onto his back and raised up, eyes locked onto the massive werewolf. He couldn't help that, despite the carnage, he was being drawn to the beast. He found his feet and started to walk towards it.

Of course it was stupid to approach a werewolf that just killed everything thrown at it, only to murder their commander. Sure, the rotting tree monster was about to kill him, but that didn't mean he wasn't off the record. But he couldn't stop himself, his feet moving on their own towards the wolf.

The werewolf turned it's attention towards him, visibly stiffening and after a moment, turned away, stomping away from him. “Wait!” Jaskier shouted, his hand out, his voice desperate.

The wolf halted, Jaskier still walking up to it. Gradually, the wolf went to face him, Jaskier only a few feet from it. The beast was unnaturally calm after having just mauled a horde of wolves and a forest monster, but it remained still, watching the man get closer. Jaskier looked at him with a mixture of wonder and curiosity, the wolf unbothered by his stare.

Jaskier could feel the heat radiating off the werewolf the closer he got, his heart racing. He saw the eyes looking back at him and felt his breath hitch. They were a surprising and rare shade of gold, pupils rounded. Jaskier could see longing and withdrawal deeply embedded within them. Jaskier knew those eyes too well.

He raised a hand to the wolf's snout, cautiously placing his hand on the wolf. The wolf didn't move, just started at him. Jaskier pet the muzzle, sliding up until he rest his palm where a cheek would be if he were touching a person's face. He didn't know why, but he felt so comfortable with this beast, and couldn't help but say, “It can't be.”

The wolf responded with a quick, low growl. Jaskier only heard a 'hmm.'

“Geralt?”

The wolf yanked it's head away from Jaskier's hand, it's throat rumbling roughly, closing it's eyes in shame. Jaskier's emotions got the better of him as he started crying and gasping a sob with a twisted smile. He couldn't help himself and launched forward, arms wrapping tight around the werewolf's waist, burying his face into 'his' chest. There was no doubt in his mind that he knew who the werewolf was. The white color of his fur, the rare gold of his eyes eyes, the way he rescued him – again.

“Geralt, I'm so sorry,” Jaskier cried into his chest, nuzzling deeper into the warmth, wanting to hide his embarrassment and gratefulness. “I didn't... I just... Geralt, I--”

“It's fine,” Geralt interrupted, his voice two versions of his own, two large arms wrapping around Jaskier and holding him gently. “You're safe now,” he assured, letting the man cry out his overwhelming emotions on his chest. Nothing could stop Geralt from lowering his head and resting his furred cheek on Jaskier's head, getting a wonderful nose full of scent.

It was the first time Geralt actually felt at peace.

– –

Jaskier felt uneasy having been carried in the arms of a werewolf, cradling him and keeping him warm. Geralt had slowly encouraged Jaskier to let him be lifted, claiming it would have been a faster trip back to the cabin. It had been, of course, Geralt's inhuman speed easily proving his words. He was careful with Jaskier, quickly guiding him to his feet as soon as they broke the tree line to home.

'Home,' Jaskier thought with a small grin. 'What a funny word.'

Watching Geralt transform from one shape to another was jarring, the sound of bones cracking and snapping, muscles twisting and reforming from wolf to man. The fur shed from his body, fluttering to the ground until it vanished like dust on the wind, snout shortening to a strong nose and fangs to normal human teeth. Claws shrunk into finger nails and haunches back to feet, leaving behind the white werewolf and the man Jaskier couldn't look away from. 'At least he's wearing pants,' Jaskier thought as he eyed the shredded trousers weakly clinging to the man's hips.

However, Geralt was much the opposite, avoiding eye contact and keeping his distance. Jaskier wanted to close that distance, wrap his arms around him and feel what he felt in the woods. That warmth that spread throughout his body and the safeness that washed away his every worry. He craved that feeling again, but when he looked at Geralt and those golden eyes turned away, it only solidified the dread of not feeling it again.

“Geralt,” he spoke softly, wanting the coldness between them to go away.

“Go inside,” Geralt grumbled back, keeping his head turned.

“Bu-”

“Inside, Jaskier,” Geralt hissed more harshly than intended. Jaskier could tell there wasn't any anger towards him, but more shame for himself. Geralt pursed his lips and inhaled deeply, exhaling and finally, looking at him in the eyes. “Please,” he continued haggardly, his eyes sincere.

Jaskier swallowing and nodded, turning and headed into the cabin. When he reached the door, he couldn't help himself but to glance back at Geralt, watching the man stand completely still and stare at the ground, breathing unnaturally. Without a word, Jaskier entered the cabin, but left the door open.

He went to the washroom, seeking the wash basin, going up to it and splashing his face with water. He scrubbed his face, cleansing it of the dirt, sweat, and tears he'd shed when he was sure his life was forfeit. He swiped some water through his hair, he didn't know why he needed to but he did, thinking it would wipe away the hurt he felt. He lifted his gaze to the mirror, suddenly startled and spinning around, hands gripping the table that held the basin.

“Geralt,” he gasped, heart pounding from the man scaring him. The white haired man said nothing, just examined his body, to which the brunet did the same. He spied Geralt's arm, no longer dripping with blood, but still gashed open and scabbing.

“Your arm,” Jaskier pointed out, Geralt reflexively glancing down at it before returning his gaze.

He shook his head, “It's nothing.”

“It needs dressed,” Jaskier supplied.

“I said it's fine,” Geralt replied quicker than expected, but still oddly gentle. “It'll heal soon.”

Jaskier sighed and said, “Then just let me clean it up.”

Jaskier was already on the move before Geralt could counter him again, grabbing his wrist and tugging him to the basin. They remained silent as the brunet pulled Geralt's arm over the bowl and took up a cloth, dipping it into the water. Carefully he cleaned around the wound, dried blood chipping away and colored the water pink. Geralt grunted in pain only a few times as Jaskier grazed the wound with the rough linen, but he didn't fight him.

Jaskier finished the washing and pulled him into the den, seeking out the supply box and pushing Geralt into the arm chair. Geralt wasn't sure how he felt about Jaskier pushing him around, but he wasn't about to argue with him and let him do as he pleased. The brunet popped open the box and pulled out a long roll of bandages, swiftly and carefully wrapping the injuries with a nice firm knot at the forearm.

“There,” Jaskier said with a bit of pep in his voice, slapping his hands on his thighs. He gave Geralt a warm smile and continued, “All cleaned up.”

Geralt said nothing, else locked on his bandaged arm, Jaskier still crouched in front of him. The silence between them, the tension, was so thick it could be cut with a knife and Jaskier didn't want that. He wanted Geralt to just look at him and say... anything. He didn't care what it was, he just wanted to hear something.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Jaskier asked glumly, eyes down.

There was no reply.

“Was it to protect me?” he continued asking. “Or was it out of pity?”

Geralt just avoided his gaze and kept his lips shut, his jaw shifting as his clenched his teeth.

Jaskier pursed his lips, nodding to himself and going to stand. Jaskier went to leave, but Geralt's strong hand grabbed his wrist, the brunet frozen in place. He looked back at the white haired man, eyes brimming with tears and saw the longing in Geralt's eyes. It looked like he wanted to say something but held it back, raising to stand before him.

Jaskier felt uncomfortable being this close to Geralt, even though he was craving the closeness. He kept his head bowed, the hand on his wrist never leaving. When a calloused finger gently touched his chin, he let it pull his head upward, meeting Geralt's eyes, a stray tear slipping down his cheek. The finger quickly turned into a hand, now cupping his face and wiping away the tear.

They looked at each other for a long time, what felt like the first time for the both of them. Truly seeing the other for who they were. A wolf craving a companion, and a young man who needed comfort. It was easy to see they needed each other, but how far would they be willing to go to meet those needs. They didn't know if they could give what was needed, but at this moment, it didn't matter.

Jaskier spoke softly, slowly, “Geralt, I –”

Geralt cut him off with a searing kiss. It was quick and rough, but Jaskier couldn't help but moan into it. Feeling those surprisingly soft lips on his made his bones melt. The hand on his wrist slipped away and met his hip, beginning to slide up the shirt and feeling hot skin. Jaskier quickly stopped him, putting a hand over Geralt's, but as the man went to pull away from the kiss, the brunet's free hand was on his neck and pulling him in closer.

The feeling of Jaskier's hand on his and on his neck caused him to groan deeply, hearing Jaskier whimper at the sound. He kissed Jaskier deeper, kissing at his plush bottom lip as the brunet shivered where he stood. He'd never been kissed before, and felt awkward, but he let Geralt do as he wanted, but he would only allow him to go so far. Not after...

Geralt pulled away reluctantly, feeling the stiffness in the shorter man's form. He pressed his forehead to Jaskier's, seeing his eyes closed and lips quivering in nervousness. He kept his hand on the brunet's cheek, rubbing it over and over with firm strokes. “You're hesitating,” he pointed out, “I shouldn't have--”

“No,” Jaskier replied quickly, the hand slipping to the side of Geralt's neck, finally opening his eyes and looking up at him. His heart rate quickened at the sight of a hungry gaze looming down at him, unsure of how he should react. “Not yet,” he begged, his eyes matching his plea.

Geralt responded with another deep kiss, both of Jaskier's arms slung around Geralt's neck. His own hands were on Jaskier's lower back, just at waist level, going no higher, no lower. The skin was hot under his touch, and he wanted to feel more, but he couldn't, he knew better. He savored the kiss Jaskier was giving him, and if that was all he could give then that was fine. 'As long as he's happy,' a voice he didn't recognize as his said in his head.

“Geralt,” Jaskier shuttered, instinctively grinding his aching desire against Geralt's. He was hard as steel and desperate, he needed to feel more of him. There as another crushing kiss before Geralt carefully pulled away, looking down at him. Jaskier's pupils were blown wide with lust, staring at Geralt with a need he wasn't sure he wanted sated. “I just... I don't... know, Geralt.”

Geralt thought for a moment, eyes searching around for something in his head, then suggested, “Will you let me touch you?” Jaskier looked at him confused, unconsciously leaning his hips back into Geralt's hands. The taller man brushed his nose against the brunet's and added, in a low, sultry grumble, “I won't hurt you. I'll go slow and when you say no, I'll stop.”

“I... I...” Jaskier couldn't form words. Instead he nodded his head vigorously, holding tighter to Geralt. He needs the contact, he thought, if he didn't have it he felt as if he'd float away. He watched as the white haired man slowly leaned down, taking an arm and pulling at Jaskier's legs. He turned slightly and let Geralt scoop him up, holding him tight to his chest. Jaskier kept his arms around Geralt, both holding the other one's gaze.

Geralt gradually lowered himself into the armchair, keeping Jaskier in his lap as he sat, pulling him closer, if that was possible. Jaskier couldn't help his greediness and pressed their lips together, Geralt growling into the kiss as the hand slipped from under his knees to rest on his chest. The large hand swept over the expanse of Jaskier's torso, over his belly and across his chest, but not slipping under the shirt, knowing he didn't want that.

Jaskier was moaning louder and longer at the sensations Geralt was bringing him, his need apparent and tenting in his trousers. Of course Geralt noticed it, but he didn't want to be too forward. He wanted to give the brunet time to actually feel pleasure instead of having someone take it. He wanted him to know what it was like to receive pleasure from a gentle hand that only thought of him.

The hand slid up to the brunet's neck, Jaskier whimpering and squirming in his lap, fingers tangling in his hair. The warm palm brushed across the skin and exposed collarbone, dipping down to soft chest hair that peeked from under the shirt. Jaskier pulled back and breathed hotly, feeling the probing hand at his neck, obviously wanting more. “Not yet,” his voice shaking with desire, “I don't want you to have to see it. Not when we're...”

Jaskier's own hand covered the shoulder that housed the ugly scars of the other wolf's bite. The thought made of it Geralt angry, but it wasn't Jaskier's fault, and he wouldn't dare hold it against him. He simply nodded and kissed him again.

Jaskier hissed through his nose when Geralt found his nipple through his shirt, tweaking it lightly, but he didn't stop kissing him. If anything, it made this kiss deeper, Geralt's non-wandering hand cradling Jaskier's head as he carefully slipped a tongue against the brunet's lips. Instead of tasting him in return the young man gasped loudly, shuttering violently in Geralt's arms.

Geralt furrowed his brow in concern, wondering if he'd done something wrong. But when Jaskier finally opened his eyes, the blue was almost completely lost to the blackness of his lust, the heavy scent of arousal greeting his nose like a siren song. Cautiously, he moved his eyes down Jaskier's body, finding a large wet spot forming in his trousers. He swallowed hard at the sight, knowing that Jaskier just came without being touched.

When he looked back at the brunet's face, he saw shame and he quickly mended his gawking by placing a hand on his check and pulling him in for a sweet kiss. Geralt's humming sounded more like a purr, thumb petting his face as he felt another tear grace his palm. He brushed their noses together and spoke gently, “Don't think about it. Just feel, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shuddered again, crushing their lips together, his tongue licking at Geralt's mouth. Geralt opened his lips and let the tongue explore his mouth, keeping his still and tasting lightly whenever they touched each other. Jaskier curled into Geralt, hands pulling their faces together while his legs folded in, the older man's hand grabbing at his thigh to bring it closer.

Geralt felt his eyes go wide when he felt Jaskier pull his hand from his thigh and leading it to his ass, the white haired man instinctively squeezing a cheek firmly. Jaskier moaned loudly, muttering "fuck" between breaths before diving back into his mouth. Geralt's own need was showing itself, jammed uncomfortably into the brunet's hip, surprised there was no reaction. Maybe he was too lost in his own pleasure to even notice.

Feeling the younger man's plush ass was a state of bliss he never thought he'd experience, groping and molding it into his hand. Every moan Jaskier gave him burned into his memory, and he knew he would find himself remembering them daily. The kiss became more and more heated, Jaskier panting onto his mouth, barely taking a second to breathe. He let Jaskier take from him, it was what he deserved.

Jaskier slipped away to breathe for a few moments, forehead against Geralt's, placing his hand atop the one on his ass. "Please," he begged, pleading deeply into those gold eyes. "Touch me, Geralt."

Before Geralt could even move, Jaskier turned in his lap, fingers grabbing at his trousers, popping open the front of them and beginning to push them down. Geralt put a hand over Jaskier's frantic ones and made sure he was looking at him before asking, "Are you sure about this? Do you know what you're asking of me?"

Jaskier nodded wildly and went back to pushing them down. Geralt stopped him again. "I mean it, Jaskier," he said much more firmly. 

Jaskier stilled, worry on his face. The shame and embarrassment came flooding back to him and he quickly shrunk into himself. "S-sorry," he said, but Geralt wasn't letting him get away.

"I'm just making sure," Geralt reassured. "It's easy to get lost in the heat of the moment."

Jaskier placed a palm on Geralt's stubbled cheek and put their heads together. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply to clear his head. He looked him in the eyes and said, "I trust you with my life, Geralt."

"If you aren't comfortable –"

Jaskier silenced him with a kiss, and repeated, "I trust you."

Geralt kissed him back just as sweetly, both of them slowly building back up their passion. Geralt put a hand on Jaskier's hip, now bare and some of his belly showing, cautiously sliding under his shirt. Jaskier nodded his head vigorously and moaned, deepening the kiss.

"Touch me, Geralt," he demanded, and who was Geralt to argue with the comely man in his arm. He ran his hand up the fur of Jaskier's chest and belly, running his fingers through its softness. The hair on his chest felt just as good as the hair on his head, and it only made him want to kiss him deeper. He didn't travel too far up, feeling the brunet tense up the closer he got to the bite scars.

He turned his attention back down, to where Jaskier wanted him to touch earlier. Down his belly to his abdomen and into the batch of curls peeking out from his trousers. He carefully grazed his fingers through the curls and touched the base of Jaskier's cock.

He felt it twitch hard and Jaskier suck in a breath, burying his face in Geralt's neck. "Fuck," he whimpered, mouthing at the stubbled chin. Geralt groaned, rolling his head back to let Jaskier have more access as he let his hand stroke more of the brunet's length, still sticky and slick from his earlier release.

He'd seen it plenty when he was caring for him, but this was different, and feeling its length and girth, he might say he was evenly matched. Jaskier moaned and sucked at his neck, Geralt's free hand stroking his thick, messy hair. He pulled his hand out of Jaskier's pants and going behind his hips, grabbing at the back of the loosened trousers and pulled upward.

Jaskier yelled at the sudden movement, watching Geralt's hands with lust drunk eyes, pull his pants off. He'd given permission after all, and his aching need was hard to ignore. 

They worked together until Jaskier's trousers hung off one ankle, Geralt's hand running up and down his inner thigh. They were lip locked as Geralt took the brunet's cock in hand, Jaskier's sharp breathing approving of his actions. Slowly he stocked the length, which stood tall and leaked across his belly. Geralt took up what fluid leaked there and spread it around the head, listening to his boy whimper longingly.

"Fuck, Geralt," Jaskier moaned, "I'm not gonna last. I'm going to... again..."

Geralt hummed his encouragement and kissed him passionately, "As much as you want."

"No," Jaskier barked quickly, not meaning to be so loud. Geralt looked at him with concern and the brunet finished, "I don't want to yet. I want you to touch me.... elsewhere."

Jaskier let himself fall to a whisper on his final word, but Geralt understood. They kissed again for a long time, Geralt letting his hand explore everything. Over his thighs, thumb rubbing attentively at the scars of his leg, down his calf and brushing his toes with his finger tips. Back up, over the shin and across his hip bones, noting they weren't as bony anymore since he encouraged the man to eat when he took breaks.

When his hand came back to his cock, Jaskier whimpered again, kissing harder and licking Geralt's lips, which were easily parted. He stroked the slick member a few times until the brunet stiffened and moaned in protest, then slipped his palm over his balls, rolling them gently between his fingers. Jaskier's face became shrouded in a deep shade of red, ears and neck burning hotly in embarrassment and lust, panting heavily at the sensations on his sensitive skin. Lower, those calloused fingers trailed, dipping under his balls and rubbing the swollen mound of flesh underneath. He immediately sought out the scar there, wanting to test if Jaskier was truly ready for such an invasive step.

Jaskier needed to breathe, pressing his nose to Geralt's and moaning through parted lips. Geralt didn't stop rubbing the scar, waiting for a bad reaction, but it never came, and simply continued down. The scar got thicker the closer to Jaskier's hole, still gradually continuing as he watched the young man's face with hooded eyes.

He leaned back just a hair so he would observe any reaction Jaskier could have when the pad of his middle finger grazed the hole. Jaskier sucked in a deep breath, whimpering and scrunched his face. Geralt froze, watching him closely, waiting for his next move.

Jaskier unscrewed his eyes and found the gold ones, brows curled up in concern. He swallowed hard and nodded, "It's okay."

"I need oil," Geralt growled in his ear, the vibrations sending a wave of pleasure through Jaskier. The brunet nodded his head again and nuzzled into the older man's cheek.

Geralt hooked his arm under Jaskier's knees and awkwardly lifted up, finding his feet and rolling the slim body into his chest. He took Jaskier too the bedroom and laid him down gently, the brunet reluctant to release his hold on his neck.

Geralt crawled over him, taking the space between Jaskier and the wall, letting the brunet have an exit should he need it. Reaching over him, he found a bottle of oil among the collection of potions. It was a scentless oil, which Geralt didn't mind, every scent radiating from Jaskier's skin far more potent and tantalizing than any oil or herbs. He couldn't even get the bottle open, Jaskier's arms around his neck and kissing him lustily, tongues dancing together as Geralt groaned into his mouth.

Jaskier loved hearing those groans and grunts, the simple vibrations sent shock waves of desire through him. Kissing him was like a dream, never once expecting this level of gentleness from a man who was so grumpy and boorish. His body squirmed at every touch of those rough fingers, the places they had run across were still tingling and he wanted to be touched in those places again. The way Geralt touched him was perfect and so much more and it melted away all the disgusting touches of the wolf.

No. 'The monster.' Geralt was the wolf now. His wolf.

He whined loudly from his throat as Geralt cupped his balls again, his body already tight and on edge. He couldn't even begin to imagine what it would feel like to have him touch his hole again, let alone enter it. He wanted it so bad, to the point he was impatient. He trusted Geralt's caution, he wasn't sure himself if he was ready for that step, but he was more than happy to try and experience what the man wanted to offer him.

“Lift your legs,” Geralt managed as he broke away from Jaskier's kiss swollen lips, becoming obsessed with how soft they were. The brunet obeyed, lifting them to plant his feet on the bed. He reluctantly sat up, Jaskier's hands falling to loosely wrap around his belly and breathing heavily. He popped the cork off the bottle, pouring oil liberally over his fingers. He watched Jaskier stare at his fingers in a mix of fear and longing, both of them knowing what was to come next.

He leaned forward slightly, taking up Jaskier's knee with his dry hand, pulling and lifting it until it rest comfortably on his shoulder. He stroked the soft thigh and kissed the knee as they stared each other down. “We stop when you say so,” Geralt stated, waiting for Jaskier to nod in agreement before moving.

Geralt pushed his slick fingers between his plush cheeks, Geralt wishing for a moment that he'd spent more time playing with his ass. The two digits he'd coated were now pressed against the brunet's hole, feeling it clinch with anticipation as he rubbed smooth circles around it. He saw his cock twitch on his stomach, dribbles of future release soaking through the shirt. He grinned inwardly at the pleasure he was bringing the younger man, hoping to one day see more as the man lay beneath him.

He made sure Jaskier's entrance was properly lubricated before leaving just his index finger behind and start probing it. Jaskier stiffened and he compensated by massaging his thigh and kissing his knee again. “Ke-keep going,” the brunet whimpered, subtly wiggling his hips.

Geralt slowly thrust his finger, gradually breaching the hole in steady, precise movements. He twisted a bit, trying his best to coat the inner rim with the oil that remained on his digit, but he doubted it was working with how tight Jaskier was clenching him. He was content when he managed to hide his fingernail inside, the heat of his body almost enough to make him lose control.

Jaskier groaned at the burning sensation he felt, and there wasn't much pleasure to be had from the inside. It had felt amazing to have Geralt rubbing his hole, but entering was a completely different experience. The finger was thick, but not painful, and he wanted to feel more in the hopes it would bring him the pleasure he was seeking.

He saw Geralt watching him, once again stroking his thigh and kissing his kneecap, waiting for the approval to continue. He nodded at Geralt, lips parted and skin flushed. He felt his entrance expand further, attempting to accommodate the girth of the digit. When the second knuckle met his hole, he noticed a strange movement inside, and tried to focus on it. Geralt was curling his finger, but for what reason, he didn't know.

Geralt had had his fair share of women while living in the Temple, and a few of them had been brave enough to slip a finger in his ass and found a spot he never knew existed inside him. He hoped he could find it in Jaskier to bring to light a new sensation. He'd heard the hiss of pain when he'd pressed deeper, but with how the hole fluttered around him, he decided it was okay to continue on. With his finger fully seated, he remained motionless, studying every expression on Jaskier's face. He saw worry, pleasure and discomfort all at once, but knew Jaskier would make him stop if he need it.

He curled his finger again, Jaskier suddenly raising on his to his hands in shock, gasping loudly. “Are you okay?” Geralt asked quickly, ready to take his finger out.

“Wh-what did you...” the words were lost on Jaskier's lips. It seemed the shock was a bit much, but with how tight that hole gripped him told him everything he needed to know.

Geralt smiled and chuckled, “There's a pleasure spot inside here.” He crooked his finger again to make Jaskier jerk, now closer to Geralt's face. The older man leaned as close as he could to the younger man's ear and spoke sultrily, “I have one too.”

Jaskier's eyes went wide and his felt the heat in his face burn hotter. The idea of him bringing Geralt this level of intense pleasure felt unnatural. He was so much smaller compared to the other man. 'Then again', he pondered. A vision of Geralt beneath him and writhing in pleasure made his cock twitch against his stomach. 'Maybe next time,' he concluded as he laid back down to let Geralt play with him some more.

Geralt watched the man wiggle and squirm with hunger, savoring the fact that he was causing him to be this way. How he moaned through parted lips and how his dick oozed with liquid desire. He stopped teasing the sweet spot inside him and started pulling his finger back out. Just as the tip was about to slip away, he began pushing it back in, Jaskier screwing his eyes shut at the strange mix of pleasure and discomfort. He kept his movements gradual, speeding up slightly, the hole tightening with each thrust.

He'd found a good rhythm between fast and slow, hearing all the sweet noises that spilled from those beautiful lips. Any time he heard his name fall from them, it made his dick throb, wanting to touch himself, knowing he'd be able to cum to Jaskier's voice alone. He wanted to see just how many sounds he could pull from him, curling his finger occasionally with his thrusts.

Jaskier's hips jerked every time, his hands gripping the furs on the bed, head squirming in ecstasy. “Geralt,” he moaned, chest heaving as his hips swing back and forth. He couldn't stop moving, he was just feeling too good whenever that thick finger found that place. “I need more!” he exclaimed, throwing his head back. “It feels so good!”

Geralt took his request into consideration and pulled his finger out with an obscene pop. Jaskier started sitting up, brows raised in question. Geralt re-oiled his fingers, pressing the two back to his hole, locking his ember eyes with the cornflower blues. They managed a kiss as the older man let the knee slip from his shoulder down to his hip. It was hungry and needy, Jaskier's hands tangling in the long white hair. He pulled the bottom lip between his teeth so he can suck on it softly.

He crawled up Jaskier's body until he was laying down again, holding himself up with his free hand while the other had two digits probing at the hole. He knew this intrusion would make or break what they had going at the moment, and he thought kissing him would help ease the tension. He took the note that Jaskier liked kissing, and considering his untouched release from earlier, he really liked kissing.

“I'm going to try two fingers,” Geralt spoke softly, sucking the lip back between his, listening to the beautiful song the brunet was singing for him. Jaskier nodded as his hands roamed the expanse of the older man's chest, finding himself groping his pectoral muscles.

Geralt was careful when pressing his index and middle fingers inside, the hole extra tight, Jaskier hissing and whimpering at the feeling. He stilled when his first knuckles were nestled inside, kissing all around Jaskier's mouth and down to his neck. He nuzzled his jaw and rubbed their cheeks together, kissing at his ear and listening to the panting next to him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier huffed, brushing their faces together, “please.”

Geralt licked the brunet's lips as they shared another heated make out, his fingers thrusting as they worked their way inside. Jaskier was hold him tight, shivering as the fingers spread him wide. The feeling was making him nervous, and he knew Geralt could sense it, but he held his ground. He didn't want to ruin the moment, loving every soft touch and gentle caress. 

“Oh, by the Gods!” Jaskier gasped, Geralt's fingers buried in his ass and curling slightly. He felt teeth nip at his jaw and he shivered, his body over stimulated. He could hear how primal Geralt's growls were becoming and it made him wonder what he'd sound like when he finally let loose and gave into his desires. The thought scared him, but he wasn't lying when he said he trusted him.

The oil slicked digits began their gradual sliding in and out of his body, brushing that place inside him that made his heart soar and his mind go blank. He couldn't think when those fingers brought sparks to his eyes, eventually closing them so he could enjoy the fireworks. When a new rhythm was established, that same, not too fast and not too slow, it left him wanting.

“Ah fuck, more! Please!” Jaskier begged, his nails starting to dig into Geralt's back.

Geralt wanted to ask him to be sure, but the beast inside him wouldn't listen, and just gave Jaskier what he wanted. He sped up his thrusting, aiming his fingers at that spongy spot that made the brunet cry with delight. He jabbed it hard, fingers nearly slipping out on every outward thrust, his hole loosening but still deliciously tight. He wanted to know what that hole felt like wrapped around his dick, but at least the sane part of his brain kept him under control.

“Fuck!” Jaskier cried again, his hips raising, the head of his cock rubbing against Geralt's abdomen, the man not ceasing his thrusting fingers. “Ge... I... fu... Gera...” Every word was lost to a gasp of pleasure, Geralt feeling the muscles tighten around him, knowing the end was nearing. He gave the brunet a bruising kiss as he dug deeper into that warm heat, patiently awaiting his release.

An indistinct string of words slipped out of Jaskier's mouth as liquid heat started decorating Geralt's stomach. He didn't stop fingering the man, and even lowered himself so the brunet could rut against him. Geralt grunted with lust at the replenished scent of Jaskier's release, the urge to dip down and taste it too strong to ignore.

He moved down, fingers still inside Jaskier has he slowly came down from his high, seeing some of the release dripping off his deflating cock. Cautiously, he lapped at the weeping head, Jaskier jolting in shock, glaring down at him in confusion and exhaustion. He met the blue eyes as he licked what he could from his dick, the salty bitterness making him hum approvingly. “Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed and slammed his head into the pillow, a tingle of pleasure throughout his body.

Geralt got his taste and came back up to kiss the tired man sweetly, carefully pulling his fingers out of the clenched hole. Jaskier grunted when they popped out, not wanting to explain the sensation for any reason. He just laid there and basked in the afterglow as Geralt buzzed with energy next to him. He spied the raging erection Geralt sported under his shredded trousers, making him wonder why they were even still on.

When Geralt rolled on to his side, he placed a warm hand on Jaskier's stomach and just looked at him with loving eyes. Jaskier smiled back at him, and said, “Shouldn't we take care of you?”

Geralt shook his head and answered, “I'm fine.”

Jaskier gave him a stupid look, both of them knowing the expression read that he wasn't dumb. In his youth he'd experienced erections that just wouldn't go away until they were dealt with, and knew that if he'd just gotten someone off without getting off himself, he'd want to get right to it. Instead, he slipped his hand down to Geralt's aching cock and continued, “There's no way 'this' is fine.”

Geralt gave a guttural grunt at Jaskier's hand grasping his cock through his pants, his hips instinctively thrusting against it. He sighed, knowing there was no ignoring this. Even if Jaskier hadn't insisted, he probably wouldn't be able to get by without doing something. He simply nodded and reached down, removing the hand regretfully. Jaskier gave him a worried look but saw that he was now gripping himself pretty tight through his trousers.

“Can I watch?” Jaskier grinned curiously, cocking his head.

Geralt couldn't say no. So he didn't.

He took off what remained of his pants, more like shreds of cloth, and tossed them across the room, knowing he would have to dispose of them in the morning. Jaskier gasped at the sight of his naked lower half, unconsciously squirming forward to press himself into Geralt's hip. His cock stood tall and strong and it made Jaskier's mouth water. He never once in his life thought of another man's cock as desirable, but Geralt's made him question why he never had before.

Geralt hummed when he wrapped his large hand around his cock, the same one he had been pleasuring Jaskier with. Something about that made it so much more intimate than it was for both of them, and the brunet curled in more to his side, kissing his cheek. Geralt leaned into the kiss, turning his head to meet Jaskier's lips.

Jaskier moaned to every hum of pleasure from Geralt as his hand started stroking up and down his rigid cock. He couldn't help but to glance down at the white haired man's hand, mesmerized by the slick, fluid movements. He saw Geralt's free hand grip his balls, tugging and squeezing lightly as he stroked himself and groaned. He wanted to feel them too, the weight and the texture, and slid his hand over top Geralt's, kissing him again.

"Can I touch you, Geralt?" Jaskier asked, kissing along the larger man's chest, eyes looking up at his panting face. "Like you touched me?"

"Y-yeah," Geralt struggled to say, already overwhelmed with his imagination and now preparing to experience some of those hidden fantasies.

He heard Jaskier giggle and lute calloused fingers grace the skin of his hand, and he released his balls, letting the brunet take hold of them. A spark shot through his abdomen to the base of his cock, another sharp groan bursting from his throat.

Jaskier loved the feeling of them, heavy and swollen with need to relieve themselves. He squeezed them gently, gradually tightening his grip until Geralt sounded like he was going to start thrashing around, and not in pain. He even tugged them a bit to get another rise out of him, seeing Geralt squeeze his dick tighter, his essence dripping onto his scarred abs. 

Jaskier readjusted his hand, fingers fondling him, his middle grazing the sensitive skin underneath his sac. Geralt jolted and stroked his cock hard and fast, the brunet watching him with wonder, eyes glazing over with lust. He was no where near ready for another round of what Geralt could offer him, but the erotic sight before him foretold future encounters, and he couldn't wait.

With a few more quick strokes, focusing on the swollen head of his cock, Geralt was grunting loudly, ropes of cum splashing over his body. He panted his release, eyes screwed shut and the ghost of Jaskier's name made the brunet shiver with delight. Geralt's free hand reached behind the younger man's head and pulled him into a warm, fierce kiss, breathing heavily though his nose, Jaskier gladly returning it.

They kissed for a long time, the passion falling to a simmer until it was slow and languid. It was sweet and loving, Jaskier cradling the stubbled cheek in his hand, fingers dancing down his neck until he was wrapped around him. They shifted so Geralt could hold him close to his chest, the brunet tiredly lowering his head to rest on the larger man's shoulder. They pet each other and basked in the silence, Geralt humming lightly.

A few minutes past, both of them recovering from the intense love making, Jaskier trying to nuzzle deeper into Geralt's chest. As sleep started to over take them, Jaskier couldn't help but smile and say, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Geralt asked sleepily.

“For saving me,” Jaskier's hand rest on his breast bone, drumming his fingers in an unknown song. “For giving me more than I asked for.”

Geralt just hummed again, turning his head to press his lips to the soft chestnut hair. He made a silent vow in that moment, to keep Jaskier happy. He knew he hadn't been doing a good job for the last week, but he promised he would do better. He promised that he wouldn't push him away or hurt him again, and give him what he needed and never taking from him. He hugged him a little bit tighter, noting the soft, even breaths flowing across his skin.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you what I am. I did it because I thought it scare you,” Geralt admitted, answering the questions he failed to find words for earlier. “I didn't want you to think I was going to hurt you too. I don't pity you and I never will. I just want you to be safe.”

Jaskier drew small circles on Geralt's chest, listening to him intently. He was too exhausted to cry again, but the building emotions were there. A big, gruff man all but on his knees and asking for his forgiveness for hiding something so important. He supposed it was meaningless now, he'd already accepted Geralt for who he was. But would he really have been able accepted him if he had known earlier? 

He decided not to think about it. He was happy now, and Geralt obviously cared for him, or else he wouldn't have gone to such great lengths to bring him pleasure and help him regain his freedom. He didn't know when he would be ready to move on to something more, but where they were now, wrapped in each others arms, feeling each other, was good enough for him. He smiled again and closed his eyes, finding the best spot on Geralt's chest.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier said before letting sleep take him.

“Hmm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could there be more? Should there be more? We can only wait and see... <3
> 
> P.S. There will probably be more of this universe. I love it too much!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave any comments below. I would love to hear some feedback. <3


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